The psychedelic scene exploded in my 8-year-old eyes: the teenager getting ironed by the crazy woman. He was screaming or singing, or I don't even know. I was watching through my butter-greased fingers, trying not to cry. We ate popcorn out of a brown paper bag popped at home. Coke snuck it in under his coat and I was worried we were going to get caught. I was always worried about going to jail. It almost seemed inevitable.
I hated everything about that movie - there wasn't any real talking, there were mean freaky parents and awful wasted villains. The colors were all wrong and the lights were coming at me too bright. I don't know who thought it would be a good idea to take all the kids to the movie with them, maybe it was the only way the adults could go. It's not like anyone would babysit our rag tag neighborhood bunch with honey stuck on our lips from the sandwiches earlier in the day, and in my case, hair so tangled it could not be discerned from a spider's nest.
Although I was far less disturbed, I felt equally distant from Reds when I went to see it with my Grandfather. He was so into it that I could hardly stand to disappoint him, but all I felt was tired, bored and cold watching that never ending film.
Gandhi, on the other hand, which was also long, was riveting. I went to see that with my aunt, the one I smoked and drank with as she told me all about her guru from The Punjab. I felt that I was a lost soul, reincarnated from some better, more mystical existence. Gandhi spoke to me. Not that I'm the type to go on a hunger strike. It certainly lodged the hatred of Colonialism deep in my psyche.
I don't go to movies I don't want too see anymore. Even the "kid" ones I hoist onto my partner. She has a far higher tolerance for a non-riveting story. Me, I like romantic comedies most of all. I guess that makes me a little ditsy and cliche, but I'll take that over an ironing board any day.
No comments:
Post a Comment